


I Hope We Hang On Past The Last Exit

by trashcangimmick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is a Hot, Depression, Drinking to Cope, Grief/Mourning, Light BDSM, M/M, Mess, Power Dynamics, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-15 08:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11226831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: “I am drowning. There is no sight of land. You’re coming down with me. Hand in unlovable hand. I hope you die. I hope we both die.”That awkward moment when Dean's so broken up about Sam getting locked in the cage, that he kinda sorta gets steamrolled into a relationship with the King of Hell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't going to be 10k. But then I had emotions. RIP.

Peace or freedom.

 

The words ring in Dean’s head long after Cas has vanished.

 

When the highway exit for Lisa’s house comes, Dean lets it pass. He keeps driving and driving off into the sunset. He's too tired to sleep. Scared of the dreams he might have.

 

It's not till daybreak that he checks into a Motel 8. Almost gets a double out of habit.

 

He passes out with the TV on, still fully dressed.

 

***

 

The days blur easily. Asphalt, sunlight, and the same soundtrack it's always been.

 

Dean ganks a few monsters, but he’s just going through the motions. Maybe half hoping that without a partner he’ll fuck up and get his throat slit. He wonders if the gates of Heaven and Hell are even open to the likes of him. Maybe he'd just go in the ground and that'd be the end of it. The big fat nothing.

 

Maybe that's what he wishes for.

 

He drives. Keeps moving until he has to collapse from exhaustion. Drinks himself to sleep when possible. Never stays anywhere longer than a night.

 

If he looks straight ahead at the open highway, he can pretend Sammy’s in the passenger seat. Dozing, or reading, or just staring out the window. The car still smells like him. His clothes are bundled into a duffel bag in the backseat and Dean's not gonna ever touch them. He don't wanna break the spell.

 

***

 

“You've got a very odd way of celebrating victory.” The leather of the passenger’s seat creaks as Crowley settles onto it. Making himself comfortable.

 

Dean's too checked out to startle. At this point he's used to angels and demons just appearing from thin air.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“I dunno. It's my day off. Thought we might grab a pint and drink to beating the Devil.”

 

Dean doesn't even try to comprehend the words. Just stares blankly at the horizon. Nothing matters.

 

He stops at a roadhouse that reminds him of Jo and Ellen and everything he's lost. It should feel wrong, to sit at a polished wood bar and drink watery beer with a crossroads demon for company. But Dean doesn't feel anything. He's just hollow.

 

When Sammy jumped in the hole, he must have taken Dean’s heart with him.

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. He's sipping some sort of cocktail that's the same brown as his eyes.

 

“Don't really have those anymore,” Dean shrugs.

 

“Jesus, you've gotten morbid. I almost miss the juvenile humor.”

 

“What do you want?” Dean asks again, because he didn't actually get an answer.

 

Crowley lets out a long sigh. “After you survive the apocalypse, everything just seems a bit… pointless. Like a big old crescendo with no resolve. Ruined orgasm. It’s all…” Crowley waves his hand abstractly.

 

“Different, but still the same.”

 

“Yes. Quite.”

 

“And?”

 

“I suppose you remind me of the last grand hurrah. It was a bit exciting. Thwarting Lucy together.”

 

“Yeah. I guess it was.”

 

“Fancy a shag for old time’s sake?”

 

Abstract flashes of sweat, and heat, and skin on skin float to the surface. It only happened twice. When Dean was drunk, angry, and vulnerable. Crowley just so happened to appear at the right moment. He was the jagged rock Dean battered himself against until everything went pleasantly numb.

 

It was filthy and secret. Something he didn't share, but Sammy probably knew about anyway. At the end, he almost wanted to apologize for it. Even though Sammy had done far worse over the years, Dean was supposed to be the faithful one.

 

He drowns the rest of his beer. Waves for the check. Crowley is staring at him. Waiting for an answer.

 

“Eh. Why not.”

 

***

 

It’s muscle memory.

 

Dean closes his eyes, and rolls his hips, and splits himself open on a nice thick cock. If he were the sentimental type, he might be crying. Instead he just grunts. Leans into every kiss. Every searing hot touch.

 

Maybe it's not quite catharsis. But there's something to be said for visceral pleasure. Sins of the flesh. It's enough to jolt Dean's mind off the hamster wheel for a little while at least.

 

"I've missed you," Crowley grins. The declaration shouldn't sound half as filthy as it does. 

 

Dean feels dirty all over. Stuffed full of demon dick in some rundown motel that's even sleazy by his standards. He'd blame the alcohol, but he didn't have anywhere near enough to work up a buzz. No. He wants this. It feels good to be touched. It feels good to bounce on Crowley's cock like a porn star. It feels good to use someone who you know is just using you in return. This might as well be a business transaction for all absent emotion.

 

Dean was halfway convinced he'd never experience another orgasm. Didn't have the energy to seek it out. Didn't even know if he had enough sensation left in him. Maybe that would have been romantic. Embracing celibacy as a form of mourning.

 

But Crowley comes inside him. Stains him. Drowns out any residual echoes of the love Dean can never taste again.

 

Dean shudders apart. Moaning like a whore. Allows himself to cling to the warm body underneath him. Crowley is not a hard plane of muscle, like Dean is accustomed to. Crowley’s flesh is soft in all the ways his personality can't be. He holds dean loosely, with arms that aren't cartoonishly long. He is painfully not the thing Dean aches for, but he’ll have to do.

 

***

 

Bobby calls once a week. Leaves a message. _I hope you’re OK, son._ Nobody else calls Dean. Everyone else is dead or just plain gone.

 

So when his phone chimes on a Thursday (Bobby calls on Sunday), he’s apprehensive. Worried something has gone wrong.

 

It's not Bobby.

 

**Dinner?**

 

He doesn't recognize the number, but he has a pretty good idea who it is anyway.

 

**_crowley?_ **

 

**Good boy. You're slightly smarter than you look.**

 

**_how'd you get this number?_ **

 

**Might have slipped it into some sap’s contract. Suggested he should want to know how to contact a certain Dean Winchester for an extra year before collections.**

 

**_wow dude_ **

 

**So, dinner?**

 

**_i mean. i guess?_ **

 

**Excellent.**

 

*******

 

Dean kills two werewolves in Oakland.

 

He wastes a ghost in Baton Rouge.

 

He hunts a witch in Tallahassee, and Crowley shows up right as the party is taking a turn for the worse.

 

“Sorry, love, but that's my toy you've got on the slab. I’m gonna need you to let him go.”

 

Dean is strapped to a stone altar. Staring up at the night sky. The heat is oppressive. Sticky on his bare skin. He didn't particularly want to die in Florida, of all places.

 

But he did want to die.

 

He can't see Crowley, but he'd know that voice anywhere. Does Crowley keep an eye on him? Stalk him? He’ll have to check the car for another one of those damned coins.

 

_“Your_ toy?” The witch cackles. “Perhaps you should keep better track of your belongings, Crowley. This little morsel wandered so willingly into my grasp… you’d almost think he wanted me to kill him.”

 

“I imagine he did. Bit of a drama queen.”

 

“Well, that's not surprising. You've never had good taste in playthings. Though this one is very pretty.”

 

Of course these two know each other. Just Dean’s luck.

 

“Can we stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Dean sighs, maybe just a hint of the old petulance creeping in.

 

“Quiet, you,” Crowley snorts. “We’ll have plenty of words later.”

 

Crowley has gotten closer. Dean can see him out of the corner of his eye. He's not sure if it's gratitude or annoyance flooding through him. Probably both.

 

“You don't really expect me to give you something for nothing, dear.” The witch simpers. Still twirling a knife uncomfortably close to Dean’s chest.

 

“Of course not. Name your price.”

 

“I do miss my sister terribly.”

 

“Done.”

 

Crowley snaps his fingers.

 

The leather straps that were keeping Dean fixed to the altar go slack. He sits up and cracks his neck. The witch is gone. He turns to Crowley and blinks a few times.

 

“You really have to be more careful, kitten.”

 

“I had it under control,” Dean grumbles.

 

“Is that so? Because it looked like you were about to become dinner for an alligator god.”

 

Dean's clothes aren't anywhere to be seen. He was unconscious for a little bit. Last thing he remembers is a swamp shack that's probably miles away from here.

 

“You think you could drop me off back at my motel?”

 

“I’ll do you one better.”

 

The next second, Dean is sitting on a large feather bed that is definitely not the Best Western. One of the walls is just a huge window looking out onto a beach. There's an ice bucket with champagne in it by the door. Flower petals scattered across the carpet.

 

“Where the hell are we?”

 

“A honeymoon villa in Maui. The poor bastard who booked it got tangled up in some nasty business. It seemed a shame to waste such a nice room.”

 

Huh.

 

Dean sprawls out across the downy comforter. Looks up at Crowley.

 

“Well?”

 

Crowley is naked with a flick of his wrist. He climbs on top of Dean, pressing hasty kisses against his neck. It's fast and rough before it's tender. Dean’s covered in bite marks and bruises. Crowley’s come dripping out of him.

 

“Don't scare me like that again.” Crowley murmurs right against his ear. It carries all the weight of a dire threat.

 

If Dean didn't know better, it would almost seem like the bastard cared.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s digging up graves, somewhere out in the sticks of Missouri. Castiel may have been watching him for a while. But Dean only looks up when the job is almost finished. His shovel just hit wood. 

 

“Heya, Cas,” Dean does a little two-fingered salute. 

 

“What exactly are you doing with the Demon Crowley?” Blunt as always. Figures. 

 

“I dunno, what’d ya hear?” Dean leans on his shovel. Smiling. There's an empty space where his remorse should be. 

 

“That the two of you have been fornicating. That Crowley released a very dangerous witch from Hell to save your life.”

 

“That about sums it up.” Dean shrugs. 

 

“Why?” Cas is frowning. Genuinely confused. 

 

“Sometimes people just do things. There's no bigger reason behind any of it.”

 

“Perhaps. But the same isn't true of demons. Aren't you worried about what he’s planning?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“You can't trust him, Dean.”

 

“I don't.”

 

“Then why do you keep…  _ seeing _ him? It borders on suicidal.”

 

“It sure does.”

 

Cas is silent for a little while after that. Dean busts open the coffin. He climbs out of the hole he's dug, pours in the salt and lights up the bones. 

 

He and Cas stand there, watching the fire flicker. It's halfway reminiscent of a camping trip. They just need the marshmallows. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Cas eventually offers. 

 

“About what?” 

 

“I know you miss Sam. I wish we could have done more to save him.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He’d want you to be happy.”

 

“Uh huh.” 

 

“Dean?” Cas places a hand on his shoulder. Squeezes. 

 

“Cas?”

 

“This… thing you're doing. Does it make you happy?”

 

“I don't even remember what happy feels like.”

 

“I see.”

 

Cas regards him for another few moments. Pats him awkwardly before vanishing. Dean walks back to his car and drives away. 

 

If he keeps moving, he doesn't have to think about any of it. 

 

***

 

When Dean dreams, it's all sepia-steeped memories. TV sets of cardboard nostalgia. Of that precious time before Sammy ran off to Stanford. That summer when it was just the two of them, living out of the Impala together. 

 

Hot days, with the windows down, music blasting, Sam in nothing but a white t-shirt that stuck to his chest and a pair of ratty jean shorts. 

 

Cool nights spent still sweating, pressed against each other, against the leather of the back seat. 

 

_ Love you, Dee.  _

 

They said it could be always. They could live like that forever. 

 

But they got interrupted by hunt after hunt. Another call from Dad, telling them to drive to a new city. Kill some new terror. 

 

And then Sammy just left. 

 

The dreams forget that part. Linger in the haze of Sammy’s soft, floppy hair. Easy smile. Long, strong fingers. 

 

All the dreams linger in the only love that Dean’s ever understood. That painful, guilty, bone-deep tug of need. 

 

*** 

 

Dean runs across a pack of ten demons in Little Rock and wonders if he’ll make it out alive. 

 

They’ve got him cornered in an empty parking lot. It's the middle of the night. Not like he could call for help anyway. But it still feels lonely. 

 

He’s got Ruby’s knife, and a super soaker full of holy water. He remembers when used to take on armies without a second thought. Everything was gonna be OK. Because he had to protect Sammy. 

 

What do you do when your life's purpose stops existing?

 

“Hold up!” What must be the boss demon raises his hand in a closed fist and the pack stops it's approach. “Dean fucking winchester?”

 

“Who’s askin’?” Dean cocks his super soaker. 

 

“Shit,” the demon groans. “All right boys. Let's get out of here.”

 

“You scared of me or something?” Dean almost laughs in disbelief. He's used to arrogance from hell’s underlings. Sure there was a spell after he rose from the grave when they were careful around him, but things went back to the usual order pretty quick. 

 

“Not  _ you,” _ the demon sneers. “But we don't cross the boss.”

 

Quicker than Dean can question the response, there's a cloud of black smoke and a pile of bodies. 

 

***

 

**_did you put out some sorta memo that nobody's allowed to mess with me?_ **

 

**Might have mentioned something at the weekly meeting.**

 

**_why_ **

 

**It's more fun to fuck if you're in one piece?**

 

**_crowley_ **

 

**What? Why is telling the troops to leave you alone a bad thing?**

 

**_it's just a lot to cope with ok_ **

 

**You've never been in an actual relationship before have you.**

 

**_what's that got to do with it_ **

 

**_we're not in a relationship_ **

 

**Of course not. It would be ludicrous to assume so.**

 

**You just seem deeply confused whenever someone does something nice for you.**

 

**It's a little sad, honestly.**

 

**_fuck you_ **

 

**_don't call me anymore_ **

 

 

**_really? ur not gonna argue?_ **

 

**Do you want me to?**

 

**I’m not particularly interested in playing grade school head games with an overgrown man-child.**

 

**Though apparently, that's what I signed up for when I stuck my dick in crazy.**

 

**_i really hate you_ **

 

**Thanks, darling. Means a lot.**

 

**When you're done pouting, you know where to find me.**

 

***

 

“You're such a fucking brat.” Crowley snarls. Slapping Dean across the face too hard for it to be all play. 

 

Two weeks. They lasted two whole weeks before this inevitable collision. Dean is swimming in whiskey. He wants it to hurt. 

 

When the sex is angry, Dean stays completely in the moment. He can’t think about anything. He just goes blank and  _ feels _ . 

 

They're in a nondescript bedroom. Who knows where. Dean's already naked. Kneeling on the carpet. Can't escape that strange contented feeling. The near sub-conscious notion that this is how it's supposed to be. Crowley fully dressed, in control, ready to wreck something. Dean offering himself as an enthusiastic sacrifice. 

 

Crowley slaps him again. Fists a hand in his hair and forces him to look up. Dean licks his lips. Smiles a little. 

 

“It's almost like you want me to smack that smug little grin clean off you,” Crowley snorts. 

 

“What gave me away?”

 

“You're only the biggest pain slut I know.” 

 

The demon strength is wonderful. Means Crowley can wrap his fingers around Dean’s throat and lift him off the fucking ground. Throw him on the bed hard enough that the springs squeal like they're gonna break. It wouldn't be the first mattress they ruined. 

 

Crowley is on top of him. Forearm across Dean’s jugular, cutting off his air supply. Dean struggles. Squirms just for the reminder of how little he can move. 

 

If Crowley wanted to, it would be so easy for him to choke Dean past the point of unconscious. Deprive his brain of oxygen long enough to make sure he never wakes up. It would be just as easy for him to break Dean’s neck. Carve him open and let him bleed out. 

 

There's something exhilarating about supplicating to someone who could murder you with a snap of his fingers. Because Crowley  _ doesn't.  _ He makes it just painful enough to drive his point home, and never takes it any further. 

 

Banging a supernatural creature has its other perks. Like witchcraft lube. Crowley’s fingers already slick when they tease at Dean’s asshole. Sometimes, Dean is pretty sure Crowley adds a little something extra, beyond just the practicality. Because it shouldn't feel so good, that first breach of fingers slipping past tight muscle. It should sting. Instead, it feels like they've already gone a couple rounds, and Dean’s uncomfortably close to a mind-shattering orgasm at the simplest touch. 

 

He can't gather enough breath to moan, but this mouth falls open anyway. He clutches at Crowley’s shoulders. Squeezes hard as he can with fading consciousness. 

 

Crowley lets up for a second. Lets him gasp before putting the pressure right back on. He adds two more fingers in one motion, and Dean is seeing stars. 

 

“Christ, you're eager for it.” Crowley’s voice has gone rough around the edges. He always seems surprised by how much of a whore Dean actually is. Or maybe he's just surprised Dean is still letting him do this, despite all the obvious reasons it's a terrible idea. 

 

Dean grunts. Tries to rock back against Crowley’s hand. He’s gonna come soon. He’d rather it happen while Crowley is inside him. But he doesn't have a whole lot of control over the issue. 

 

Hell, he’s completely out of control. Four wheels, no brakes, careening down the steepest of hills. 

 

“You ready, sweetheart?” Crowley shifts enough so that he can unzip his pants with his free hand. He doesn't wear boxers, or briefs, which is both ridiculous and a little sexy. It's definitely nice for situations like this. Easy access. 

 

Dean nods as much as he can. 

 

Then Crowley pushes into him in one steady motion. Dean whites out a little bit. Only comes back when Crowley smacks his cheek. The pressure on his throat is gone. He moans much too loud as Crowley starts to move. 

 

It's always sweltering. Like Dean is a burning building. Crumbling from the inside out. Blood racing too fast. The heat swelling inside him just a shade past unbearable. 

 

Crowley’s fingers are tangled in Dean’s hair again. Tugging lightly as he thrusts, oh so deep and dirty. 

 

“You're going to come just from being fucked, aren't you?” The tone is teasing. It's not an actual question. 

Dean couldn't string a sentence together if he tried. So he takes the words as permission, and shudders apart. He’s a mess of contracting muscles and cloud-nine endorphins. 

 

He’s aware of it when Crowley speeds up, fuck him hard enough for it to be overwhelming under normal circumstances. But he's too checked out to really care. He's still floating somewhere soft and lazy when Crowley flops next to him, panting and sweaty. 

 

“I do so enjoy our hate sex. We should fight more often.”

 

Dean grunts. Swats at him half-heartedly. But he doesn't protest when a now naked Crowley cuddles up against him and kisses his shoulder. He just relaxes into it and basks in the rare, contented feeling. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on the [blue hell box](http://trashcangimmick.tumblr.com/). We can scream into the abyss.


End file.
